Unending
by Rjalker
Summary: It seemed to Samuel Anders that the escape from New Caprica would never end.


**Unending**

**(If you found this in the recently updated section of the BSG stories, and you have not yet read the beginning of the series, please click on my name, scroll down my profile, and read the first story, _Never Leave You_, first. If you just finished reading _Cerberus_, then you are in the right place. Yay!)**

**Created on 4/26/13, 7:58PM**

* * *

It seemed to Samuel Anders that the escape from New Caprica would never end.

A week had passed since they'd left the gods forsaken rock behind…

…But the horror and pain still hadn't ended.

The unspeakable relief that his wife was alive after four months of silence had been shattered by the pain in her eyes, the undeniable truth of what had been done to her, and the way she looked around her as though danger lurked in every shadow when they had just done their best to escape it.

She was sleeping now, though, and some of the tension that had filled her had drained from her body. But not all of it. She lay on her side, curled in on herself, her back to him, leaving the bandages that covered the top half of her back visible beneath the thin hospital gown she wore.

The bandages that covered just one of the horrors that had been inflicted on her.

His hands clenched in his lap, the knuckles turning white and his fingernails digging into his palms as the sight of what lay beneath those thrice-damned bandages flashed once more behind his eyes.

Some were the pale beginnings of scars that had obviously healed long ago—evidence that it had started almost immediately after she'd been captured.

The newest ones were just barely scabbed over and were only a few days old.

He couldn't even begin to count them. He couldn't bear to look at them for longer than it took to see that they were each only took up maybe a square inch of space and that they extended all the way down to the middle of her back.

Clenching his jaw, he closed his eyes and tried to control the helpless rage that wanted to fill him.

If she woke up and found him angry, she's think he was mad at _her_, like she had when she'd woken up with the restraints on. He hadn't missed the look of fear she'd shot at him, or the way his touch seemed like a knife to her for the way she reacted. The way she'd flinched away from him, the way she'd tugged against the restraints as though they were killing her.

He'd never seen anyone so scared in his life.

He never wanted to see her look at him with such terror in her eyes again. He didn't think he could stand it.

A sound—some half-word that he couldn't quite make out—from the bed had his eyes falling open and his teeth unclenching as he turned concerned eyes on his wife.

Thankfully, she was still asleep. That was good. She needed rest. A shiver swept through her body, and he could see the goosebumps than ran up and down her arms.

He wanted to pick the blanket up and draw it over her shoulders like he had on so many New Caprican nights before hell descended from the sky, because he knew she was cold, but every time it had come near her in the past few days she'd kick or throw it away, even in her sleep, such fear and anger in her eyes that he wasn't able to continue the effort to make her comfortable.

He'd talked to Helo—no one had felt it was a good idea for her to see him again so soon after what had happened until they figured out what had gone wrong the first time—and he had started looking for a portable heater that they could borrow from someone until she calmed down enough. They didn't want to force her into a panic attack over something as stupid as a blanket.

Biting his lip, he saw that she had even refused the pillow. The way she held herself, in the very middle of the bed, as though she were afraid to even touch the mattress, stirred dark thoughts within him as his mind conjured up images and ideas of what could have happened to her to cause such a reaction.

The darkness was abruptly shattered when she suddenly flinched, her entire body tensing, and curling even further in on herself so that her knees were pressed to her chest and her arms around them to form an impossibly small ball.

His hand automatically went out to shake her from the clutches of whatever nightmare had taken hold of her, only to snatch it back again when Cottle's admonition not to touch her while she was asleep rang through his head.

"Kara?" He whispered, softly, careful to keep the anger he still felt out of his voice, "Kara, it's alright, you're safe on the _Galactica_. No one's going to hurt you."

Cottle had made it clear that they were to constantly reassure her that she was safe and that no one on the old Battlestar would hurt her.

Part of the reason she was acting the way she was, Cottle had told him when he'd managed to pull Sam away from her bedside long enough to explain the situation, the old doctor's voice low and filled with both rage and weariness, was because the Cylons had been dosing her with something.

It had almost faded from her system entirely, so he couldn't be sure what it was, but its affect on her brain was as obvious as it was debilitating. Her short-term memory was shot to hell, something that was only worsened by the concussion she'd obviously suffered shortly before rescued from the detention center.

Kara flinched again, drawing him from his thoughts and into the present once more. Somehow knowing she was awake, he stood and moved around to the other side of the bed so she could see him, not wanting to startle her, only to see that her eyes were screwed shut and her face twisted in agony.

His concern immediately turned to panic, and this time he couldn't stop himself from reaching out to her, the urge to drive away her fears overshadowing his judgment. Before she'd disappeared, his wife very rarely showed when she was hurt. Seeing her reduced to a shadow of the bright and vibrant woman he'd fallen in love with brought out a protectiveness in him that she'd never allowed him to express before, too afraid of showing any sort of weakness to let him. For her to show such pain…it had to have been unimaginable.

His hand had barely touched her arm before her eye snapped open to stare at him, and for one, single second, it seemed that time had stopped, leaving the two of them alone in that eternal moment when their eyes met, green locking onto grey, and a world of hurt seemed to hang in the air between them.

Then the connection snapped, like a cable trying to hold up a bridge that was already falling, and fear and anger and pain flared up in her eyes and the next thing he knew, her hands were around his throat and the wind had been knocked out of his lungs and he was on his back on the floor and all he could see was the rage on her face, as though he'd destroyed everything she'd ever cared for.

"Kara!" He gasped, staring up at her rage-twisted face and seeing the terror that hid in her eyes, "Kara, Kara, stop, it's me, Kara, stop, it's Sam!" He said, trying to break through the cloud of fear that seemed to hang over her. Her hands were tight on his throat, and his lungs burned. For one, fearful moment, it seemed as if his words had no effect, but then she drew in a sudden breath, and recognition flooded her eyes.

Before he could react, she'd released her grip on his throat and had shoved herself away from him, pressing herself against the wall and curling her knees to her chest in the defensive posture she always seemed to hold herself in these days.

Trying not to show the relief he felt at being able to breathe again, he sat up, careful to keep his movements slow, and resisted the urge to massage his throat, watching her carefully incase she took his movement as a threat.

But she didn't seem to notice. She'd pressed her forehead against her knees and her arms wrapped around her stomach as she mumbled something over and over in so low a tone that he couldn't quite catch it.

Then she jerked suddenly, as though feeling the weight of his gaze, and her shoulder twitched, before she lifted her head slightly to look at him out of the corner of her eye. Careful to keep his expression free of anything she could mistake for anger, he met her gaze.

After a moment of silence that seemed to last forever, she closed her eyes, drew in a breath as though for courage, and said, her voice just loud enough for him to hear, "I…I'm sorry...I shouldn't have…I didn't realize…I…I thought you were…" She trailed off, her voice taking on a frustrated edge, before, lifting one hand to press it against her forehead, as though to force her thoughts into order. "…I'm sorry." She repeated at last, dropping her hand and opening her eyes to regard him once more with a shadowed gaze, her pale hair framing her face as it tumbled down her back.

It…was funny how he hadn't noticed before that her hair had gotten longer.

Suddenly, the grief that had choked his every waking moment since she'd disappeared four months ago seemed to weigh upon his heart anew, dragging his soul down into the shadows as he struggled to breathe past the lump that had formed in his throat. Wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, he felt exhaustion tug at his limbs like a child seeking attention. His eyes fell to the floor, and he was sure his heart skipped a beat. She'd been gone so long…

Abruptly realizing he hadn't spoken since she'd apologized, he swallowed past the lump in his throat and said, his words faltering slightly with the pain of loss that still filled his heart, "No, no, it's alright." He said, trying to reassure her, "It's alright. I'm sorry I startled you. It was my fault."

Glancing at her once more to gauge her reaction, he saw that she was no longer looking at him and had instead propped her chin up on her knees, her eyes downcast and shrouded in anguish.

Feeling the sudden urge to do _something_, Sam drew in a breath for courage, stood, and moved to her side. Keeping his posture calm and unthreatening, he crouched just a foot away from her. She bit her lip, and her entire body had tensed, as though expecting to be struck. She turned her face into the wall.

The sudden image of a young girl with blonde hair superimposed itself over the form of his wife, and he couldn't help but remember the few times she'd opened up to him enough to talk about her childhood.

Slowly, he raised his hand. She tensed further, and he felt his heart pound in his chest in sympathy and rage for the fear she felt. As gently as possible, he set his hand on her shoulder, being careful not to touch any part of her back that was wounded.

"Hey," He said softly, "Kara?"

He saw her shiver. "You…you…must hate me..." She whispered, her words faint and muffled by the wall, her voice full of sorrow.

"Hey, no, no, no," He said, removing his hand from her shoulder and shifting slightly so that he was infront of her, but away far enough that he wasn't crowding her, though all he wanted to do was sweep her up into a hug and promise that everything would be alright. But the words wouldn't find voice, and he said instead, fervent and from the very depths of his soul, "I love you, Kara. Nothing's ever going to change that. If you need some space, I'll give you space, but I won't leave you, Kara, never. I love you and I'll _always_ be here for you. I won't give up on you."

She tensed again, her knuckles turning white where she had them bunched into the material of the hospital gown she wore. "D-don't say that." She mumbled, her words suddenly rushed and frantic, "Don't-don't say that, don't sound like him, don't say that, don't say that, don't say that…"

His heart clenched at the fear behind her words. "I…I'm sorry." He said, quickly backtracking. If he ever got his hands on the bastard that had done this to her, he'd kill him. He didn't know what to say. He needed to tell her how much she meant to him. What could he say that wouldn't remind her of her time as a prisoner? "Tell me what to do." He said softly, "You're my wife, Kara, and I'll do anything for you. What do I need to do to prove it?"

Still tense, she turned her face away from the wall to look at him, but didn't meet his eyes, instead looking off to the side of him, as if afraid to look at his face. "If…if you mean it…" She whispered, "If you mean it…" She bit her lip, and finally switched her gaze to his, her emerald eyes suddenly as hard as steel and full of challenge. "Then get me out of here." She said, her gaze unflinching though her voice still wavered. "Get me out of here. _Please_. Anywhere but here. Put me in the brig, a locked room, anywhere! _Just get me out of here!_" Her voice broke at the end, and she turned her face into the wall again, though her body remained still, as though chiseled from ice.

Feeling his own eyes burn at the sight of her grief, it took all of his willpower not to envelope her in a hug. Instead, he moved closer, and gently lifted a hand to lay it on her shoulder again. He hated the way she tensed under his touch. But she needed to know that things were going to be different. He would _never_ hurt her. "Kara, Kara," he said gently, "Kara, look at me, it's alright, _I promise_ I will get you out of here." He said, "But-but you need to tell me why. Why can't you stay here?" He hated himself for asking, but it had to be done. They had to know what had happened to her. But gods damn it if he was going to allow her to be kept there for a moment longer than she needed to be. The next time he saw Cottle, he was going to demand that she be moved somewhere else. You didn't need a hospital to treat someone. That lesson had been learned many times over when all they'd had in the ways of shelter was the thin fabric of a tent that was the only thing standing between them and the harsh biting cold of the New Caprican winter.

"T-the smell." She whispered, drawing him out of his dark musings, "The chemicals, the-the Fours, they…they, they, they, they did…did something to me. They did something to me. I can't stay here. They keep coming back. They'll find me. They'll try a-again. They want to take—" she broke off suddenly as a tremor wracked her whole body. "Where…where's Kacey?" She whispered, looking up at him with eyes suddenly wide and full of panic, "Where is she? Where's my daughter? _Where is she_?" Her words suddenly reminiscent of the snarl of an animal, she glared at him, her eyes narrowing and her lips pulling back to bare her teeth, her gaze flashing with fury.

She slapped away the hand he'd still had on her arm. "_Where is she_?" She demanded, her words harsh and deadly as her voice rose slightly.

Holding up both hands in an attempt to calm her, his mind raced back through the past few days, remembering the meetings that had been held in Doc. Cottle's office. Everyone in the hanger bay had seen the way Kara had reacted when the mysterious woman came in and swept the little girl out of her arms before anyone could stop her. Sam had been too far away at the time to do anything.

He'd made sure Kara and the little girl she claimed was her daughter had gotten safely into a raptor, only to realize that there wasn't enough room for him. He'd had to run to find another. He wasn't even sure his wife had noticed, she'd seemed so out of it. The burst of energy she'd used to run back to the room she'd been kept in seemed to have evaporated, and it was only with another passenger helping her that she remained standing.

The last he saw of her before he was forced to make for the next bird was her leaning against another woman's shoulder as she held tight to the little girl in her arms, her entire body shaking. Then the door had shut, and he'd leapt into another ship, praying with the entirety of his soul that she made it aboard the _Galactica_ safely.

The sight of her in the distance on the hanger deck had sent relief crashing though his mind like a tidal wave, only to evaporate and turn to concern edged with panic when he saw the way she stood, frozen in the bustling crowd, desolation in her eyes and the way her arms hung at her sides, empty.

Everything about her had screamed of a broken woman.

He couldn't remember pushing past the crowd that still separated them to get to her, all he knew was that he _had_ to get to her. And then she was in his arms, and she'd seemed so fragile, and for the longest time of his life all she did was stand there, as though he didn't exist, but he didn't care, didn't care because he just wanted to help her, and then she'd hugged him back, and she was crying and for the longest time they'd just stood there, alone in the crowd, but then something about her had changed, and he almost could have sworn he'd heard her whisper, _I'm sorry_, but then she was gone, and he'd taken a step back, and it had taken him a moment to realize that she'd pushed him away and had been swallowed up by the crowd. His mind in shock, it had taken another moment to realize she'd taken his gun with her.

The next few minutes passed by in blur of panic as his mind tore through all the horrifying possibilities of what she could do with the gun, the expression on her face, as though her world had been shattered, burning in his mind as he tried to follow her, shouting her name to be heard over the roar of the crowd. For a single moment, he caught sight of her, standing among the milling bodies, her head bowed and her arms at her sides with a white-knuckled grip on the gun she'd taken from him, looking as though she were a statue carved out of pain and confusion.

Then the Admiral had been lifted into the air on people's shoulders, and the crowd had swarmed to him, chanting his name and clapping as they gave voice to the joy that filled their hearts at being rescued.

His sight of his wife cut off once more, only Sam looked around him and saw, not those that gave into their relief, but those few that stood as though the floor would give out beneath them at any second, the ones that shied away from those around them and whose skin, both marred and clear, couldn't hide the scars that crisscrossed their souls.

The realization that he was one of them came only an instant before the shout for a medic arose over the chanting of the crowd. Everything happened so fast. One moment, he was shoving through the panicking crowd, trying to get to her where she stood in the eye of the storm, and the next, he was kneeling on the floor by her side, and one of the medics had finally arrived.

They'd brought her to sickbay, and for day he'd sat by her bedside, praying that she would be alright as Cottle and his assistants ran what tests they could manage with the thousands of other people in need of just as much help as she. After the third day, when he'd grown so exhausted that he'd actually started seeing things, his dreams slipping into reality when his eyes closed without his knowing, Jean, who had hardly left his side since the occupation, finally convinced him that falling asleep on his feet wouldn't help anyone, and managed to chase him off to the hangerdeck where the civilian refugees were staying. He'd collapsed onto the pile of sheets that someone had set up for him, promising himself that he'd only close his eyes for a moment or two.

But sleep hunted him like a pack of hounds after a fox, and he'd descended into darkness shrouded nightmares where his wife lay, beaten and broken as he knelt next to her and tried to shield her from something that he couldn't see, only to watch in horror as she faded before his very eyes, the darkness creeping in on his vision. He'd reached out, desperately, to touch her, to find her, to protect her, only to find that he couldn't move. His arms wouldn't lift when he told them to, and his lungs wouldn't move to let him breathe. But the fear that he felt then was nothing compared to the horror that crashed down on him when he felt, beneath his knees, something warm spreading outward from where he knew his wife lay.

He didn't need to see to know that it was blood.

"_Tell me where she is!_" The suddenness of hearing her voice, even filled with the rage that it was at that moment, after reliving the nightmare that he still hadn't been able to kick from his thoughts even though it'd been days, shocked him back into the present so thoroughly that, for a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its side.

Struggling away from the vague memory of nights spent wandering a carnival with friends whose names he could no longer remember, he focused his wavering vision on the sight of his wife, her face only a few inches away from his, her face twisted into a snarl and her eyes flashing emerald fury tinged with fear, and waiting behind that fear, deep, _deep_ in her eyes, hid a horror too deep to fathom.

He wanted to answer her, to tell her that he didn't know, but somehow, the words wouldn't come to him. Instead, he found himself saying, his hands till held up for peace, "Tell me about her. Tell me about Kacey." His voice had taken on a pleading edge without his even realizing it, some of his own pain coming to the fore against his will.

Shoving it viciously to the back of his mind, he fought to keep his inner turmoil from showing on his face as he waited with bated breath for her to respond.

For a moment, she simply stared at him, her expression unreadable except for the horror in her eyes that he would never be able to forget. Then the shifted slightly away from him, so that she was sitting on her knees instead of having them curled to her chest. Her head bowed and her face now hidden behind a curtain of white-gold, she whispered, "I…I don't know where to start…"

"Then…then how about the beginning?" He asked gently, matching her volume and forcing his body to relax despite the sudden fear of finding himself surrounded by a pool of blood that he couldn't seem to shake. His eyes darted of their own accord to the white tile that he crouched on, just to make sure.

Anxiety and dread had settled in the pit of his stomach, and they didn't seem inclined to release him from their grip anytime soon.

Suddenly, the sound of unfamiliar footsteps, loud as the beat of a drum in the momentary spell of silence that had fallen over them, sounded from the direction of the entrance to sickbay. Having spent almost an entire week in the ship's infirmary, Sam had taken it upon himself to memorize the gait of everyone he could, a challenge to his mind as much as it was a distraction from the helplessness that had filled him.

His gaze drawn back to his wife, he was stunned and pained to see that all the beginning of calm he'd hoped to inspire in her had disappeared completely, and now her wild-eyed gaze was locked in the direction of the approaching footsteps, her entire body trembling as she pressed herself into the wall as though wishing it would swallow her up.

She was talking to herself again, her face twisted and her forehead pressed once more into the wall, muffling her words, but not enough that he couldn't hear them. "No, no, no, it's alright, they're not here. He said the Fours weren't here. He wouldn't lie. It's not a Four, it's not Simon, they won't—" Her words were cut off suddenly as she drew in a sharp breath and curled in on herself, clutching her stomach as violent shudders wracked her frame, a small gasp of pain escaping her.

He was at her side in an instant, but it seemed to him an instant too slow. The world spun around him as he caught her in his arms when she almost fell sideways, leaving the two of them the only things sharp and real as the memory of the nightmare crashed full-force upon him once more, this time tinged with the biting lash of reality.

"Kara?" His voice had risen, and he almost shouting, but he didn't care, "Kara, Kara, what's wrong?" She was still clutching at her stomach, her face twisted in pain, and when she opened her eyes to look up at him, they were glazed over as though she were looking at something only she could see.

"NO!" Her voice the broken howl of a wounded animal, she made no move to escape his hold, and instead scrabbled desperately at her stomach with her hands, seemingly oblivious to the world around her, her breath coming in panicked gasps, "No, no, no, no, no!"

To Sam, it seemed like everything was moving too slow to be real. The darkness of his nightmare swam before his vision, only to be replaced by the sterile white tiles of the ship's sickbay a second later.

The metallic scent of blood swamped his sense, and he would have sworn that the legs of his pants were stained a horrible, dark black with the crimson that he was half convinced was creeping across the floor.

The sound of his wife's frantic whispers wavered in and out of focus, and for a few, heart-stopping moments, he could tell what she was saying.

And then his world shattered.

"Gods, no!" He didn't even recognize the sound of his own voice as the darkness once more closed in around him, and he was once more trying to shield his wife from something he couldn't save her from.

Because it had already happened.

He'd known it from the second he saw her, but his mind had tried to deny it. His heart had _forced_ him to deny it.

Kara pushed herself away from him, jolting him back to the reality of the sickbay once more, and he made no move to stop her.

His heart pounded in his ears, and adrenaline sang through his veins so quickly that it felt like every nerve in his body was alive, waiting for him to choose an escape route. Fight, or flight. His body demanded he choose, and he trembled with the effort it took to remain still.

His heart lay in what felt like a million pieces on the floor.

And still the footsteps were approaching. How much time had passed? The world spun around him.

Lifting his eyes from the floor, he sought his wife's gaze. But her eyes were closed, and she lay still against the wall, arms still wrapped around her stomach in a protective embrace that was completely in vain.

But the sight of her lying there was too much like that of the nightmare that suddenly seemed mixed up in reality, so when the curtains behind him were suddenly yanked open with the sound of plastic against metal as the rings holding up the curtains shifted, he had the sudden, insane thought that whatever was behind him was the one that had hurt his wife.

With a roar not unlike that of an animal, and in a movement so fast that even he wasn't sure exactly when he went from kneeling to on his feet, he pulled back his fist and lashed out with all the power in his body, his mind screaming at him to protect his wife, his Kara, screaming at him that he had to protect her _now_, because he hadn't been able to then.

Because it was all his fault.

Suddenly, the conversation he and Cottle had had on the first day back slammed into his mind. The gruff surgeon's voice had been filled with a quiet disgust and anger that Sam could hardly distinguish from the man's usual personality. "As far as I can tell…it happened about a week ago. Maybe two."

Sam had opened his mouth to ask the question that had been burning in his heart, but his voice died on his lips, too afraid of the answer he'd get if he asked it. The older man noticed, though, and his unspoken words were as obvious as their answer was dreaded.

"I'm sorry." The white-haired doctor had said at last, "There's no way of knowing unless you ask her herself." Cottle had sighed deeply, and shook his head as though trying to shake out the knowledge of how cruel the Cylons could be. "I'm sorry." He said again, looking all his years.

Sam felt his fist connect to something that gave way beneath his strike even as pain blossomed across his knuckles. His eyes still clouded with the memory of receiving the news that had broken what seemed the final the straw of sanity he'd had left, he couldn't see what he was attacking, but he didn't care. All that mattered was protecting his wife.

Clenching his eyes shut so that he wouldn't have to see the darkness that he still imagined surrounding him, he prepared to strike again, every fiber of his being demanding that he not let anything or anyone get past him.

Then the air disappeared from his lungs, time seemed to stand still for an instant as he felt the sensation of falling, and then the surprise of finding the cold tile of the floor against his cheek finally shocked him back into the present. Blinking rapidly, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to fill his lungs, he suddenly realized that he was being pinned down by an orderly.

What air he had regained quickly caught in his throat as the sudden terror that Kara would be held in a similar position overwhelmed him, and he struggled to turn his head to see her.

His heart started up again when he saw that she sat, relatively safe, where he'd left her against the wall, one of the nurses kneeling at her side and speaking to her in soft, soothing tones and being careful not to touch her.

A man Sam didn't recognize stood near the curtains, staring at Kara with shock and concern written over the features of face, one hand half raised in a seemingly forgotten attempt to staunch the flow of blood that was slowly but surely dripping from what looked like a broken nose.

Sam had just enough time to realize that _he_ had done that, the ache in his right hand confirmed it, and to realize with shock that the man as Lee Adama—which mean he had punched the Admiral's son, _he had punched the Admiral's son!_—before the curtains were unceremoniously ripped open to admit a very harassed looking Doc. Cottle.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" He demanded, his sharp eyes passing over both Sam and Apollo before they landed on Kara and the nurse that was helping her. Immediately, his gaze hardened, and his eyes snapped back to switch between Sam and Lee. "Both of you," He snapped, "In my office. Now!"

The orderly that had been holding him down cautiously released him, then offered him a hand up, watching carefully to make sure he wasn't going try anything again.

Sending one last fearful glance to where his wife still sat, the sudden, childish urge to just sit down on the floor and refuse to leave rose up in him. Another glare from Cottle was all it took to quickly dispel that idea, and, following Commander—or was it Captain now? Major? He couldn't remember—Apollo's lead, he pushed reluctantly passed the curtains that isolated his wife from the rest of the sickbay's occupants, and turned his feet in the painfully familiar path that would take him to the military doctor's office, his hands carefully clasped behind his back in case the urge to strike out once again overcame him. But the two of them made it to the small room unscathed, neither saying anything to the other.

Sam couldn't actually _think_ of anything to say. He knew the Admiral was like a father to Kara, and that she and his son were friends, but…that goodwill didn't exactly transfer over to him.

A sudden wave of exhaustion fell over him as he stepped across the threshold, and, drawing in a shaky breath, barely keeping himself from stumbling, he dropped into one of the chairs infront of the physician's crowded desk, and let his head fall into his hands, palms pressed into his forehead as though to force him to stay awake against the wavering edges of reality. His body felt like it was weighed down with rocks, and he couldn't even find enough energy within himself to look up when he heard the other man—the _Admiral's son_, who he had _punched_—start to pace the room.

After a minute or two with the only sound in the room the sound of the other man's feet against the floor—his mind seemed dead set on reminding him at every turn that the man whose nose he had probably broken was the Admiral's son—he dropped his hands from his face, and, forcing himself to stop trying to hear something from where his wife was behind the solid door of the office, he said, lifting his head to turn in the other man's direction, "Hey, uh…" he trailed off. What was he supposed to say? Sorry for breaking your nose, please don't throw me in the brig?

Realizing that the other man had stopped pacing and was looking at him, he raised one hand to wave awkwardly at his own face, and said, "Sorry about, uh, your nose…" he trailed again, feeling like a complete idiot, then continued, trying to at least give a reason in his defense. "I don't know came over me. Kara was…and then you were…I…" Finally, he just snapped his mouth shut, figuring he'd best just stop talking altogether.

He was saved from having to hear the other man's answer when Cottle once more made a dramatic entrance, this time with his loud footsteps making both men freeze as they turned to look toward the door, and Sam couldn't help but think back to the time when he and his friend had sat in the office at their school, their feet stilled upon the floor when normally they would swing, tapping their heels against the legs of the chairs in a pattern that they made up as they went along, their heads bowed as they turned their eyes anywhere but on eachother as they waited for the Principal to call them in. He couldn't even remember what they'd fought about. He…couldn't even remember his friend's name.

Closing his eyes against the crushing weight of loss that had renewed its effort to engulf him, he didn't see the old physician enter the room, only heard the sound of footsteps and the door clicking shut, then the scrape of a chair behind the cluttered desk. It was quiet. It was false. Behind that silence hung a storm of anger and protectiveness, like the darkness behind the stars as they blazed across the sky in their eternal and spiraling dance.

Breathing in a sigh, he turned his head forward so that he would be facing the desk, and opened his heavy eyes, suddenly weary with the world. All he wanted was to help his wife. He wasn't some kid who needed to be scolded for getting into a fight with his best friend over something as stupid as who got to sit in the red chair when they went to the library. Not anymore.

"You two want to explain to me what exactly it was you were doing?" Cottle's words almost matched perfectly the same question he and his long-ago friend had been asked, and Sam had to resist the urge to laugh, and just barely stopped himself from replying just as he had so many lifetimes ago. He didn't really think Commander Apollo would appreciate being called an idiot, especially because he wouldn't get the context. So he wisely chose to keep his mouth shut, even as Cottle's glare turned on him.

That plan lasted around the eight seconds that it took for him to remember the promise he'd made just moments before.

Darkness flashed once more before his eyes, and he leapt to his feet, his heart racing as his wife's anguished voice again rang through his mind.

_Get me out of here!_

"I want her moved out of sickbay." He said, grabbing the back of the chair he'd just deserted when the floor tried to switch places with the ceiling. "She hates it here." He rushed to explain when Cottle opened his mouth to speak, "You said we should be trying to make her feel safe, but being here isn't helping that." His voice wavered, and his knuckles turned white as he forced himself to continue, "You-you know what they did to her." He said, his voice strained as he kept his eyes stoically locked with the doctor's. He didn't want to see Commander Apollo's reaction. It would either be pity, or confusion, and he wasn't sure he could handle seeing either of them.

He didn't know which idea seemed worse, the possibility that his wife's secret had gotten out and that everyone knew—or that they would be the only ones with the weight of it burdening their souls, alone but for eachother in their pain.

His legs grew weak at the thought, and his heart suddenly seemed to pound like a hammer against the inside of his skull, sending a spike of pain behind his eyes with every beat. He lifted a hand to his head. "Ow." He said, blinking rapidly as his vision blurred.

The floor tilted, and he stumbled and almost fell over the chair he'd been sitting in, spots dancing infront of his eyes. A steadying hand grabbed his arm, preventing him from falling entirely, and he realized with hazy gratitude that it belonged to Commander Apollo.

_Thanks for that_, he wanted to say, but the world seemed to be fading, and he couldn't get his voice to work to say the words. His eyes slipped shut, and, unable to fight the bone-weary exhaustion that had had a hold on him since Cylon Raiders dropped screaming from the sky on New Caprica, he fell into darkness.

His mind caught in a web of all of the emotions of the past week, he found himself sitting cross-legged on the Pyramid court of the resistance headquarters that he'd run back on Caprica. The asphalt beneath his hands as he leaned back on them almost burned with the heat of the sun it had absorbed, and the loose gravel dug into his palms. He could feel the heat against his skin, settling over him like a comforting weight. The wind brushed past him, bringing with it no scents or sounds.

The silence should have disturbed him, but for some reason it seemed…almost natural.

Almost. Something was missing.

His eyes were suddenly closed, and when he opened them again, the sky was lit up with a blinding white light that burned his eyes. He ducked his head, shielding his watering eyes with a hand, as he tried to see past the light that had filled the sky.

The silence was suddenly broken by the terrifyingly familiar sound of a Cylon Raider screaming by overhead. The wind blasted past him, suddenly icy cold, and with enough strength to lift him bodily from the ground and toss him a few feet away to land painfully on the still burning pavement.

The air was torn from his lungs, and his head slammed against the ground, making the world fade for a moment into starlight and darkness as pain flashed through his skull.

He struggled to pick himself up, his arms suddenly too weak to hold him, and still blinded by the light of the sky. He collapsed back onto the ground, his lungs burning for air as he shut his eyes in an attempt to block out the light.

A shadow fell over him, cutting off the burning heat of the sun, and he felt his heart clench.

The echo of the Raider's passing rang through his head.

Clenching his jaw, he managed through sheer force of will to push himself to his knees, the weight of the world suddenly seeming to weigh him down, crushing him to the earth. Head bent and hands pressed into the suddenly cold ground, he opened his eyes, and forced himself to lift his head.

"K-Kara?" He whispered, unable to make out the form that stood over him past the blurriness of his vision. Whoever it was was shrouded in shadow, though the sky shone as bright as ever. Darkness seemed to radiate off of them, writing and twisting almost visibly in the air.

He should have felt fear. Something so dark could only be evil.

And yet he was not afraid. Clouds filled the sky, and the blinding light faded until the world was awash in shades of blue and grey.

"I know you, don't ?" He said suddenly, staring at the shadowed form. Its outlined almost seemed to glow against the contrast of the world and the pitch eternal blackness in its center. A sense of familiarity engulfed him, and he watched as the shadow slowly moved forward, its hand extended to him.

He accepted it, and pulled himself to his feet. Its hand was as cold as ice, and yet nothing about it seemed frightening. The weakness that had consumed him just moments before seemed to have vanished.

He released the shadow's hand, and took a step backwards as he suddenly realized where they had met before.

"It-it's you…" He said, taking another step backwards. He wasn't afraid. He was confused. "But…but you're…" The words wouldn't find voice.

Suddenly, sounds that didn't belong began to register with his consciousness.

The shadow lifted its hands to its head, and like it had pulled down a hood, its face was revealed.

"We haven't met." It said.

And then the dream disappeared.

Sam opened his eyes, and found himself looking up at the familiar face of his friend. A face that was currently scowling at him.

"Good. You're awake." She said, and before he could even react or figure out if he really _was_ awake, she drew her hand back and slapped him. She had _actually_ slapped him.

Jean shook her hand and glared at him. "You," She said, her voice steely, "Are an idiot, Samuel Tisereus Anders, and if you ever try to pull a stunt like this again I swear to _gods_ you _will_ regret it."

"Well hello to you too." He said, his brow furrowing as he tried to shake off the feeling that he was forgetting something that the dream had inspired. He could have sword he knew…

Knew…what?

He frowned. What had the dream been about? He remembered a bright light, and pain in his head, but…other than that…it had already faded.

"Hey!" He said suddenly realizing that she had used his middle name, "I told you never to speak that name out loud." He scowled, and shifted so that he was in a sitting position against the headboard of the bed, surprised at how difficult it was to do such a simple thing.

Jean crossed her arms, pointedly refusing to help him, her eyes still narrowed in anger.

Ignoring her, he swept his gaze across his surroundings and was surprised to find that he was in what appeared to be another sickbay. Beds lined the walls, and chairs had been stacked in one corner, along with what he recognized as medical supplies. "Where am I?" He asked in confusion, then, with more urgency and alarm as his gaze swept the room only to find that he didn't recognize any of it, his voice rising in panic, "Where am I?"

Had he been moved off-ship? Had his actions in the _Galactica_'s sickbay gotten him kicked off? He'd punched the Admiral's son. _The Admiral's son!_ The man that was considered to be the single reason they'd all be saved from that doomed rock, and this was how Sam, who had more reason than most to be grateful, had repaid him.

Sam dropped his head into his hands before Jean could even speak. She was right. He was an idiot. A complete and utter idiot. He'd been kicked off the ship. Now Kara—oh, gods, Kara!—Kara would be forced to stay in sickbay and there was nothing he could do to help her now and—

_"You must hate me."_

Her words rang through his head, and he clenched his jaw in an effort to stop the tidal wave of despair that wanted to wash over him and swallow him whole. She was going to think he'd abandoned her. She was going to think that he'd chosen to leave her there alone, knowing all that he did of what she had gone through and yet doing it all the same as though he didn't care at all.

But he _did_! It hurt so much to know that she'd been harmed, that she'd been forced to go through torments that he couldn't even imagine. It hurt knowing that he hadn't been there to protect her when she needed him most. It hurt knowing that he'd been so close to her and yet unable to help her at all.

And suddenly the deafening roar and wave of heat that always followed an explosion seemed to surround him, and he realized with horror just how close that attack had come to the building Kara had been kept in. No, no, not building. It didn't deserve to be called a building. It was a _prison_, it was _hell_.

He hadn't spent much more than a few seconds in the room his wife had been trapped in, but what he had seen had been burned into his mind like a wound that would never heal. A dying Two that was slowly bleeding out onto the pale blue carpet, his face pale and his mouth slowly twisting into a terrible smile even as the light faded from his eyes. The floor length windows that made up the entirety of one of the walls and yet did nothing to lighten the room. The sight of the sky and steel behind them still sent his heart clenching because he knew they were just another bar in the cage that his wife had been stuck in like a bird with clipped wings. The storm of anger and fear that hung over the room in a cloud so thick he could almost feel it.

The way a chill of dread passed over him as he stopped at the top of the stairs, his gun aimed at the dying Cylon—_just in case_—even as his eyes were drawn to the form of his wife where she was crouched infront of a small child with golden hair. The sight almost made his heart stop.

He clenched his fingers into his hair.

He'd almost lost her.

And it was his fault.

If that explosion—

"This area isn't being used at the moment, so it's being converted to an extension of sickbay. There are too many wounded and too few ships equipped to take care of them, so non-emergencies are being moved here." Jean said, interrupting his thoughts, "You're the first to be moved into this section. Congratulations."

He lifted his head and stared at her in shock. "I'm still on the Galactica?"

Jean's expression went from one of anger to confusion, "Where else would you be?"

"I…" He hesitated, "I thought…" He lifted a hand to his head, "I don't know." He said, not wanting to tell her his fears of being tossed off the ship. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn't shake the feeling that if he said it out loud it would actually come true. "…How's Kara?" He asked, looking away, suddenly unable to face her anger anymore. Against his guilt at not being able to save his wife and the anguish that still clouded his thoughts, he knew it wouldn't take much more before he lost himself entirely.

The sudden flash of gunfire and screams rang through his head, and for a moment, he was back on New Caprica, gun in hand and heart in his throat as he fled the scene of the resistance's latest attempt to capture the detention center. It had failed. Utterly and completely. Tanner, Tracy and Michaels dead with only a single skinjob wounded to show for it before they'd been forced to flee. Wounded. Not dead. He'd gotten confirmation a few days later that Cottle and his people had managed to save him. He'd been shot five times.

And yet…the humans, who hadn't been shot more than once each—in the head, the perfect systematic shot of a machine designed for nothing but to kill—were the ones left lying in the dirt at the end of the day. They'd been fighting for what they believed in, for the ones they loved, and it still hadn't been enough.

He flinched away from the image, and was grateful beyond measure that Jean had glanced away at the clock on the far side of the room.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, pulling away from the memory and thinking bitterly to himself just how easy it would be to give up.

"Well," Jean said, cutting off his thoughts as she turned back around, "She…" She hesitated, and he tensed at the worry in her voice, but relaxed again when she continued, "She seems better. I mean, it's not a big difference, but, well, Agathon was there when I went to check in on her, and she seemed fine."

"Helo." He said, thinking back to the day he had first met his wife. "She didn't, I mean, did she say why she…?" He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. Unable to think of what could have happened to make his wife attack her best friend.

"No, not…exactly, but…" Jean sighed, "I saw Sharon talking with Cottle, and, well I remembered that she'd been there when Kara…" She trailed off as well, looking away, before continuing, "You know how Cottle said she had a concussion," She said, looking back at him to meet his eyes, "And you said it yourself that she didn't seem to know where she was when she woke up again." He nodded, flinching internally as he remembered the way she'd looked at him with eyes full of complete terror. The way she'd stared at them all as though they were the enemy.

"Yeah," He said softly, dropping his eyes to his lap and clenching his hands into fists again.

Jean gently laid one of her hands over his, and he felt the smallest trace of comfort at her touch. But the memory of why he even needed comforting quickly dispelled the feeling, and he felt despair rise up in him again, and he was ashamed to feel tears stinging at his eyes.

"Hey," She said softly, drawing his gaze to hers, "We'll get through this."

He was only able to hold her gaze for a moment or two before he dropped his eyes to the floor. For some reason he couldn't understand, he felt like he didn't deserve to look her in the eyes.

Then gunfire once more rang through his head, and he realized why. He'd somehow forgotten the looks she and Philip Tracey had sometimes thrown toward eachother during the resistance meetings, their eyes darting across the room as though to check that the other was still there, the smiles they'd traded...

How had he forgotten?

As though she could sense that his thoughts had wandered to darker musings, Jean released his hand, and he used it to wipe at his eyes, hating the feeling of weakness it caused when he felt the moisture of unshed tears against his palm. Compared to Jean, who had lost the man she loved, and his own wife, who had gone through a nightmare so horrific that she couldn't even leave sickbay, and the thousands of other people that had suffered at the hands of the Cylons, he had no right to shed any tears. Not for himself.

"You think Sharon had something to do with how Kara reacted?" He asked turning his head to inspect the room, looking everywhere but at his friend, trying to change the subject and at the same time struck by just how easy of an explanation she had presented.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jean nod. "Yeah, I do." She said, "I mean, I know she's different from the other Toasters, but everytime I pass her in the halls I just...I feel like I'm back on that rock, walking down streets that have been taken over by the enemy…." She shook her head as if to clear it, "And after everything that Starbuck went through…" She trailed off, then said softly, "I guess it's a good thing the Admiral put her under protective guard until the refugees can be moved to other ships…There's a lot of people out there looking for someone to blame for what happened to them, and I'd hate to see what would happen if they decided to take it out on Sharon."

"Oh. Yeah," He said, suddenly able to add another worry to his list. The thought that another of his friends could still be in danger hadn't even occurred to him. He hadn't really given anything much thought since the exodus except what had happened to his wife, and what was going on now to help her.

"So…can I see Kara?" He asked, staring down at his hands, marveling suddenly at the way his fingers bent and the way the few small scars he'd collected over the years marred his skin. The fact that he had so few was a miracle. The fact that he was still _alive_ was a miracle. "Or have I been banned from Sickbay?" The worry of what the consequences of his attacking the Admiral's son had returned full force, but he couldn't help but remember Kara telling him about the time she'd been tossed in the brig for 'assaulting a superior asshole'.

The joke didn't really apply to his situation, but the gleam of mischief that had been in her eye and the way she'd smiled was infectious even when in memory form, so much so that he couldn't help but crack a small smile of his own as some of his worry melted away.

Jean gave him a questioning look, but he shook his head. "You're not banned," She said, "At least, not yet." Her gaze sharpened into a glare, "But Cottle was about ready to kill you himself when he realized that you hadn't bothered to eat for the last week, which is why you passed out, by the way." She said, her eyes flashing. He had the good sense to look apologetic, and she continued, thankfully without slapping him again, "I told him that I would make sure you took care of yourself, and that_ I_ would be first in line to kill you if you didn't do as you were told. So yes, we can go see Kara, but only if we stop by the mess first to get food."

"So you're acting as my babysitter again." He said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the cot. He shot her a small smile, though, to let her know that he didn't really mind. He stood slowly, wary of the dizziness that had overwhelmed him earlier. But, thankfully, it seemed to have disappeared. "How long have I been out, anyways?" He asked as he stretched his arms over his head, feeling more alert than he had in days. The exhaustion that had plagued him since the start of the occupation no longer seemed like it would swallow him whole.

"A…day." Jean replied, then, when his eyes widened in alarm, she rushed to reassure him, "Don't worry, I made sure that there was someone with Kara at all times. The pilots were practically in line," she said, starting toward the door at the far side of the room, "The ones that were down there with us practically had to be held back at the doors, they all wanted to see for themselves that she really was alive." She smiled at him over her shoulder as they stepped into the hall, "A lot of people care about her, you know. You aren't alone in this, and neither is she."

Unable to think of anything to say, and the memory of Kara's smile once more in his mind, the only thing he could do was nod as he allowed her to lead him through the old Battlestar's hallways that seemed to go on forever.

They stopped by the mess and grabbed some trays, then made their way down to sickbay.

By the time they reached the doors, Sam's stomach was starting to growl, and the food on the trays he was carrying—whoever made the food must have finally decided a celebration was in order because each tray held a medium sized steak—was starting to smell better and better.

Hurrying through the crowded sickbay and trying to stay out of peoples' way as visitors and patients alike moved about, Sam had never been happier to see Cottle busy. For a week, he'd been fighting to draw some of the old surgeon's thinly-spread attention to his wife, but for now he was just glad that he wouldn't have to deal with another person telling him how stupid he was. He already knew that. He didn't really need a reminder.

Pausing outside the curtain that separated his wife from the rest of the chaotic room, he let Jean pull it aside from him—he was carrying two trays and his hands were full—and called, trying to sound as cheerful as possible, which, for some reason, wasn't that hard, considering the despair he'd felt ready to submit to just a few hours earlier, "Hi, honey, I'm home!"

Jean shot him an exasperated look, then shook her head and shot a meaningful glance toward the opposite side of the sickbay. He rolled his eyes and answer, and made a shooing motion with one of the trays.

Sticking her tongue out at him, she headed toward the area where civilians were being trained on how to deal with someone that was wounded. She'd gravitated toward the medical tent on New Caprica ever since Sam had gotten sick, and more than once she'd acted as their emergency medic when one of the resistance missions didn't go as planned.

Stepping inside the enclosed space, he sought out his wife's gaze. He expected to see her sitting on the bed, but, to his surprise, he found her sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the small area, her chin resting on her knees, which she had curled to her chest, and her arms wrapped around her legs. Though it was the pose she'd adopted before when she was stressed or afraid, this time she seemed calmer. Helo sat cross-legged on the floor across from her, a small bandage on his forehead the only evidence of the head-wound he'd received a few days earlier.

He wasn't exactly sure what response he expected from Kara at his cliché words—Annoyance? Amusement? Disdain?—but he _definitely_ hadn't been expecting the flash of fear that crossed her face before she'd even turned to look at him. It was gone after only a moment, but the light mood he'd been in just seconds before seemed to teeter on the edge of vanishing.

Then she turned and saw him, and her eyes lit up, and she smiled the biggest smile he'd ever seen on someone whose body and soul were so damaged.

The world righted itself again, and he grinned back at her, whatever traces of darkness that had lingered in his mind swept away on the joy he felt at seeing her smiling. For almost five months, he'd dreamed without hope of seeing her smile the way she was now.

Helo got to his feet, and Sam watched as Kara's attention was immediately drawn away from him to track the movement, and the way her body, without even moving, seemed to take on a wary edge.

The Raptor pilot seemed to sense the change in her as well, because he stilled, then said calmly, _almost_ able to hide the shadow that haunted his voice, "I'll just leave you two alone, but I can come back later, I mean, if you want...?" He trailed off, letting it turn into a question.

Kara nodded.

Without another word and only a glance in Sam's direction in acknowledgement, Helo left the curtained area.

"I come bearing gifts." He said, keeping his tone light and lifting one of the trays a bit so that she could see it.

Seeing that Kara looked comfortable sitting on the floor and didn't seem inclined to move anytime soon, he moved to join her on the other side of the bed—careful to keep his movements slow and unthreatening, unable to forget the way she'd tensed when her friend moved too quickly—and started to sit down, only to be surprised when she stood in one smooth movement and pulled the two folding chairs that had been leaning against the wall forward, pushed the one toward him, and sat down in the other. Then she reached over to a small rolling stand that he had seen used to hold medical equipment in the larger room, and rolled it so that it made a table between her chair and the empty one that was obviously meant for him.

Startled by how quickly she'd moved, and the way she seemed not to find anything odd about what she'd just done—she sat in the chair, her arms crossed and her head bowed, as though she were studying her reflection in the metal of the make-shift table, and her earlier happiness seemed to have disappeared completely—he hesitated.

"Kara...?"

As though shaken from a trance, she looked up at him, but didn't say anything, and after a few seconds, averted her gaze again.

Concerned, he set the trays down on the table and lowered himself into the free chair, wanting nothing more than to get closer to her but knowing that that wouldn't be a good idea. "Hey," He asked softly, careful to keep his voice empty of anything that could be mistaken for anger, "Kara, what's wrong?"

Instead of answering, she picked up her fork and pressed her finger against the tines, as though testing their strength, and rotated slowly it though her fingers, peering at it closely with a focus that reminded him suddenly of the jaguar he had seen at the zoo as a child.

Even behind the thick glass that separated him from the beast, he still hadn't been able to contain the thrill of fear that shot through him when he realized that the jaguar's fixed gaze on him and its slow and precise movements meant that it was stalking him.

He'd once seen his pet cat kill a mouse, and the thought that he could end up like that at the jaws of the huge black panther had sent him running after his parents, who had gone on ahead to the next exhibit a few feet away. When he finally dared to look back—the tight grip he held on his mother's hand the only thing stopping the jaguar from breaking the glass and coming after him to eat him like Sasha had eaten the mouse—the giant cat had disappeared from sight.

That night, his dreams had been stalked by shadows with gleaming yellow eyes and sharp fangs, and when he woke up in the morning to find Sasha curled up, purring, on his pillow, it had taken him a moment to separate her from the horror of his nightmares. Then she'd noticed he was awake, and licked his face. He'd hugged her then, and everything had gone back to normal.

Somehow he didn't think a hug would alleviate the sudden feeling he got that he was five again and racing through empty corridors, trying to escape the monster that hunted him just at the edge of his awareness.

Kara continued to spin the fork between her fingers, seemingly oblivious to his sudden dread.

He was overcome with the sudden urge to leap to his feet, to get as far away from her as possible, some primal fear he barely understood having risen up from his subconscious, as though it knew something he didn't, while the other half of him fought tooth and nail, demanding that he see sense.

His eyes locked onto hers. Distant emeralds that held an edge sharp enough to cut through the silence that had fallen over them, speaking more than could have been said with a thousand words.

And then, all of a sudden, she froze.

The fork clattered to the plastic tray from stiff fingers, shockingly loud in the silence.

When she looked at him, her eyes were filled with horror, and the overwhelming sense of danger he had felt just seconds before seemed to have shattered into a million pieces.

Her breath drew in in a gasp, and whatever spell had held him in place disappeared, and in an instant he had leapt to his feet and was around to Kara's side of the table before he even had time to realize what he was doing.

His hands on her shoulders—uncaring to the danger he knew that posed—he turned her to him. Her eyes, when they met his, were swirling with fear and some other emotion that he couldn't identify.

"I-I-I'm sorry." She whispered, "I didn't mean—I-I thought—" Suddenly she flinched back, away from him, and he quickly released her shoulders, not wanting her to feel confined and hating the Cylons for what they had done to her. The woman he'd married had always faced problems head on with reckless abandon and little regard for the rules. But that part of her had been buried under the self she'd had to create to survive. As wary as though the world itself were whispering behind her back, the way she tensed at the slightest movement as though something were waiting to leap at her the second she turned her back, the way her eyes went blank if someone inadvertently said something that reminded her of _him_.

She stood from the chair so quickly it toppled backwards, and it was only though sheer reflex that he caught it before it could hit the ground as Kara backed away, her hands frantically wiping at the cloth of the hospital gown she still wore as though trying to rub something off them.

Stopping when she got a few inches from the wall, Kara sank into a crouch and covered her head with her arms, leaning forward into her knees in a protective shell, her hands twisting into her hair and her breathing coming in audible gasps. "Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse and desperate, "Please, just, go away, both of you, I-I can't—I don't want to—"

Unsure of what to do, Sam knelt down a few feet away, and saw with shock that he really shouldn't have felt that tears were streaming down her face. "Hey, Kara, Kara, it's alright," he called softly, his voice hitching slightly. In the time that he had known her, he had never seen Kara Thrace cry. The sight shook him to the core. "It's alright, you're safe, nothing-nothing's going to hurt you." He whispered, trying to loosen the grip of whatever nightmare had taken hold over her, and waging an internal battle over whether he should stay put or run to get Cottle.

Her fingers clutched at her head, and he half raised a hand, afraid that she would hurt herself as she suddenly exclaimed, her voice almost a shout and a mixture of emotions too complex to untangle, "No, it's _not_! It's _not okay_! I could have—I almost—" She buried her face in her hands. "_I don't want to hurt you._"

Sam rocked back on his heels, feeling the unimaginable torment of her words slashing at his very soul. Because what she didn't know was that she had already hurt him. Seeing her, so lost, her usual confidence and the spark of defiance that made her _her_ torn from her by the monsters they had once called their children, wounded him more than she would ever know. To see her so fallen, and struggling to get back on her feet...

He would help her. They _all_ would. Because she was Starbuck. Queen of the pilots and hero of the stories that had grown to legends and were told across the fleet. Daredevil and invincible in the cockpit, she had held her own when the odds weren't in her favour, and no one else in the fleet could claim that they had pulled off more miracles than she.

It wouldn't happen overnight, but he knew that someday, things would be better. One day, he would be able to hold his wife's hand without her flinching away. One day, they'd be able to leave behind the past and look forward to the future. They'd heal the wounds that had been inflicted on their souls.

But he knew one thing, and it was that the pain he felt in his heart, the pain of seeing her so lost within herself—the pain that went even deeper than that, the pain he didn't even want to acknowledge—would never leave him. It would always be there, in the back of his mind, unending.

* * *

**Finished on 7/4/13, 2:00AM**

**This little series on mine is going to go on hold for a while so that I can get back to _Running_, my Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Doctor Who crossover musical. **

**Thank you for reading so far, and, please, leave a review. Otherwise I start to get paranoid :)**

**This segment of the _Scattered Light_ series will be continued soon :)**


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